Rise for Momentous Occasions
by Nothing Really Specific
Summary: In the aftermath of the death of his adopted father, Puss goes after the killer, only to be caught in a more deadly web of murder...that he causes. In the future, a dictator rules with an iron fist an a time travelling ship captain tells Puss that he must kill the ancestors of this dictator to prevent his birth. Puss accepts but will he be able to cope with the murder?
1. Prologue

**Prologue** | The Death of a Friar

Madrid, Spain

February 4th, 1500

The moonlight trickled through the lofty stain glass windows of the cathedral, casting their brilliance on the floor and into the pews. The faces of the martyrs spoke of their demise, but no one would listen. Even Silence, their steadfast companion, was tired of listening to their sob stories, to be honest, the martyrs didn't care. Still they shone though, hoping to cast light in the sleeping cathedral, keeping their stories to themselves. The only thing that spoke was a lonely candle, on a small wooden altar that being illuminated by Saint Paul. The smoke from the wick rose up into the rafters, but none would join in its apparent interesting conversation, it just filled the room up with useless jabber. Everyone else thought that the candle was being a bit too loud, so the door answered with the entrance of the friar.

He was a balding man in his fifties, his humble tunic and gentle blue eyes made him saintly as the flickering candles from the foyer covered him in a light haze of warmth, complimenting his life of charity. He walked towards the altar, in his hand he held a well trusted candlestick that was once again looking to be useful. He stopped three feet from the altar. Saint Paul's light moved upward slightly, acknowledging his presence, further sanctifying him. The good friar lowered his head and prayed reverently, _"Oh Padre Celestial, bendice a los pobres para que sufren, y llamada a usted, bendiga a los humildes para que temen que no se merecen, y bendice a tu rebaño, para que no te ha dejado."_ He opened his eyes and crossed his hand over his chest, making the holy symbol. He reached for the waxy, smoke producing candle, placing it in the candleholder, and lighting it with a match that was in his pocket. The candle squeaked with excitement, the thought of moving to another location, possibly a better lit and more conversationalist atmosphere, made him more waxy. He apologized to the candlestick holder for dripping himself over him. The candlestick holder said nothing.

Turning back towards the door, the friar looked at the dark familiar room. The rafters spoke in hushed whispers like they always did, and the pews were sleeping, preparing for the inevitable mass. Saint Paul looked towards the door, seeing something that only he could. A dark presence of deceit stood in the recesses of the stonework on the back wall near the door. It's pale eyes which were dead and full of spite, were followed by a demonic smile. Paul tried to shed his light towards the intruder to reveal his face to the friar but alas, his influence could only spread so far. The friar walked back down the aisle, candlestick in hand towards the door, who tried to open farther, too see if he could crush the demon, saving the day, but the hinges prevented him from moving. The demonic spirit laughed and emerged from his shadow, standing directly in front of the door, giving the friar a malicious stare. The good natured friar lifted the candlestick holder, who looked at the demon with fear, begging the friar to put him down and shield his eyes. The friar squinted to make sure that he was seeing the correct person, for he recognized him. "What are you doing here?" He asked to specter who stepped into the light, revealing his face, his hazel eyes reflected the light of the candle, his Spanish skin a soft orange. The man that stood before him wore the mask of the devil. The candle looked on, his flame growing cold, dying away from fear. The Spaniard looked up towards the windows, his eyes gazing at each one, inspecting the martyrs, making sure they were oblivious to his presence. The man slowly nodded, and turned his head back towards the friar, who looked at him annoyingly, he just wanted to get to bed. "To reap my harvest." The man from the shadow replied softly, for fear of the martyrs repeating his words. His sword wasn't the least bit shy to utter its battle cry. The ringing of its release echoed through the sanctuary like a bell ringing a death knoll. The friar sighed slowly, his breath moving the candle's smoke in the swordsman's face. He looked up towards the rafters, and as if talking to God said, " Me Señor Soberano, estoy dispuesto a ello." The friar closed his eyes and waited for the sword to pierce his neck, to disembowel him, to rip off a limb, or cut his heart. He submitted to death. The swordsman chuckled to himself, and with his sword spilled the blood of the righteous, the good, and the innocent. The friar's body fell to the floor, facedown and left alone in the dark church. The candle, that talkative, optimistic beacon of light, now lay on the ground, broken in two pieces. The candlestick holder mourned in silence.


	2. Vengeance for the Dead

**Chapter One** | _Vengeance for the Dead_

The clouds blanketed the town in a dark mournful veil, they were the only ones who knew of humanity's grave sin, the only ones who mourned with the angels, taking pity on the cathedral, who was wailing and screaming, her walls begging for justice. The wind moved her bells, calling her protectors to call to arms and avenge the dead and bring the desecrater to her gates, to face the wrath of God. On the twelfth strike, the signal for midnight, the clouds, no longer carrying the weight of their tears, poured their hearts on the grieving church, hoping that the gift of rain could wash away the pain.

Puss in Boots walked down the dark silent street. The rain fell gently on his fur, as if calling him to pursue justice, avenge all martyrs, but he, like the rest of the world, ignored the church's silent, obvious screaming. He was headed to no place in particular, he had just left the bar, his breath smelt of vodka and gin, his step was heavy and strong, as if walking towards fate. The cathedral cast her tearful eyes on him, remembering him from long ago as a playful, mischievous kitten playing in the street, there was a time when she called him friend, and he called her La Señora de la Cruz, 'The Lady of the Cross'. She was begging for him to turn around, and notice her fragile heart breaking. Puss just kept walking. His head downcast, and his thoughts elsewhere. _"Where can I rest my head? Be warm, in the comfort of a friend?" _He looked up and saw the local inn, a shabby wooden bungalow, owned by a kindly porter. The candlelight in the window flickered, the sign above the door swayed back and forth playfully, as if she were dancing in the rain. Puss walked over to the door and shook himself dry, the water droplets covering the door and the small wooden porch. He knocked on the door.

The door answered with his owner, Felix Alcala, an older gentlemen with a graying mustache was in his nightgown. He looked left and right, and was about to close the door when the cat addressed him, " Disculpe, señor," Puss said, removing his hat, Felix rolled his eyes, yawning. "Apologies for the hour, but if you could spare a room just for the night, I will gladly pay for the trouble." Felix looked at him, smiled, and moved to the side. Puss dawned his feathered hat and took a step forward before Felix slammed the door and bolted it shut. The cat adjusted his hat again, for it was cocked to the side and walked back out into the rain.

The moon peered behind the clouds, illuminating the street, letting the cathedral cast her mournful shadow. Puss walked in the center of the street again, walking towards the miserable building. The hilt of his sword gleamed and smiled at the moon, eager to be used. His boots treaded the ground, sticking in the mud, urging Puss to stop and look ahead, but he just kept on advancing. The dark maroon cape that was fastened around his neck, cloaked his back, the rain, using Puss's cape as an instrument, made a sorrow symphony. His tail dragged in the mud, slowly friction took over and he stopped. His tail was trying to tell him something, and Puss for the first time listened to everything that called to him.

He picked up his tail and brushed the mud off with his paw. The rain cleaned the rest off. The Cross of the Christ looked down on him, placing its shadow on Puss's torso. Like a gallant crusader, the cat looked up at the church, seeing the weeping angel in the cold mud. She needed a savior to lift her from darkness. The angel looked at him, on her knees, begging for her friend who still believed to still be there, although she saw Puss's heart change. She wanted him to stay and comfort her with words, be they truths or lies, she didn't care, she just wanted someone to hold her, say that she'll never be alone. Puss was no angel, if anything, he was a devil in a mask, fooling the world one day at a time, but a devil who listens and weeps for you is better than an angel who gives no sympathy. Puss sighed, "Ahola La Senora de la Cruz." he whispered, his words fell off his lips with the raindrops that fell simultaneously from the brim of his feathered hat. Puss walked towards the church, his eyes locked on the Cross. As he ascended the steps his shivered from a sudden gust of wind and rain. The eyes of the saints, the martyrs, and God himself, on him, Puss placed his paw on the door. The wooden door felt his touch and shuttered, fearful for another miscreant. The cat sighed, removed his hat, and entered the foyer.

The door announced the cat's arrival to the cathedral, who smiled, welcoming her avenger with her candles, which gladly waved him on into the sanctuary as he passed, tossing his feathered hat to the side. Placing both paws on the wooden door that lead to the sanctuary, he paused and pressed his ear against the door. Closing his eyes, Puss breathed slowly, listening for any movement, voices, the sound of a lighted match, but nothing came. The door looked down at the cat, creaking its hinges, telling him that he tried his best but his best wasn't good enough. Puss exhaled and opened the door.

The sanctuary was quiet, the martyrs, John, Peter, Saint Christopher, the Virgin Mary, all gazed towards the friar's cold body. Paul was still weeping. As Puss entered, the rafters and the tapestries that adorned the walls called his name in hurrahs and applause. He looked around the room, the memories of this place returning to his mind, grateful to be out of the rain and into a dry, safe room. His boots echoed throughout the room. The cathedral shouted, calling every stride Puss made an advancement of justice.

Puss's glance moved down into the aisle, his eyes moving from the sleeping pews to the silent ground, finally stopping on the dead friar. The candle had long since passed on, and the candlestick holder looked up at Puss, like a lost child, perking it's upper lip with exaggerated eyes. The cat kneeled on the bloodless floor, his eyes wandering from the body to the candlestick to the candlestick holder and back. His tail swayed back and forth as if in thought. Puss looked at the friar's head, recognizing the balding grey head. The cathedral and her companions waited in anticipation as Puss slowly lifted the head of the fallen saintly man. Remorse punched him in face. Puss knew this face from his clouded secluded past. It was Divine Mercy Sunday, the week after Easter, two years ago, on a night just like this...

Tomas DeLuca, the head friar was removing the candle from the altar like he always did. The rain and wind trashed violently outside, raging war against each other, shouting and cursing, their tactics becoming more sinister as the night pressed on. Standing in the foyer was a young man in his twenties, by the name of Jean de Christine, a Spaniard with a French name. His smile was never fading and his optimism always present. Tomas smiled as Jean took the candle from him as Tomas closed the sanctuary doors. "Thank you Jean," Tomas said, his voice showed his age, even though he was in his early sixties, he looked about ten years older. The was due to his health. Ever since he tried to reason with the cardinals about the morality of the Inquisition, ten years ago, he has been tortured, whipped, beaten, but still his soul stood firm, and with God's Grace, prevailed over the power of death.

Jean watched as his mentor and teacher walked to his bedchamber, worried that this will be the last time he lays eyes on him. The thunder bellowed like a heavenly trumpet, trying to cease the bickering between the rain and the wind, but like all children, they continued. Thunder called again, furious at the rain and wind's refusal to settle their dispute. Jean turned to walk towards his bedchamber when he heard, amidst the weather warfare a cry of innocence, calling out from the yelling wind and rain. Jean headed for the door and pressed his ear against it. The wind and rain warred on, the thunder sounded, telling them to be quiet. The cry repeated itself, this time louder, more urgent. Jean opened the door.

Candle in hand, looking left and right, seeing no signs of distress, Jean shrugged his shoulders and turned to go back inside when the cry was uttered a third time. Jean looked back and saw a crude shallow box near the door, etched on the side was the phrase "Era un niño abandonado." Inside this box was a small bundle, a kitten, wrapped in a scullery maid's dirty cleaning rag. Jean smiled and sat the candle down, lifting the kitten to his eyes, examining him. The kitten, who was obviously Puss, smiled, and looked at him with those big, green eyes of his. Jean laughed, and walked back inside, leaving the candle and it's holder on the porch...

Puss looked at the friar and shook his head in disbelief, the person that took him in and raised him now lay dead on the place he used to call home. The day Puss left about a year ago, he told Jean, "The world calls my spirit, I do not know what God wishes. He'll call me eventually, until then though, I shall be like the wind." The final time they embraced, Jean smiled, and Puss cried a bittersweet tear. He walked out of the door, he didn't turn back, he stop walking, he just kept his head high and looked out on the world like a painter would an empty canvas. The cat placed his paw in Jean's gray balding hair, stroking it lovingly, secretly wishing that he would just get up from the floor and times could go back to the way they were. Oh how the cathedral pitied him, for she too remembered Puss's great affection for her and for Jean, it was an almost inseparable relationship. But good things, like all things, have to die and end.

Puss sat next to his human father for the longest time, telling stories of his misadventures to him, as if he were having a conversation with him. The martyrs and the cathedral listened with interest. They were glad to see that their friend lived a life outside of themselves. The candlestick holder even took delight in seeing Puss again, he smiled, laughed, and cried with the grieving cat, talking to him for hours about life in the church and the masses. Puss of course, heard nothing.

The morning light casted it's radiance into the church, the martyrs and the candlestick telling Puss to wake up. He had slept next to his fallen master all night and dreamt about how he would cope with the pain. In his dream he made two promises to himself, one, to never fail his friends again, for he secretly blamed himself for Jean's not being there to save him, and two, he would become the vengeance for the dead, the blade of truth, forcing the world to be victims of justice. He stood, bowed his head, made the holy symbol, retrieved his hat, and walked out with new found purpose and ambition.


End file.
